Page 33 of Deadly Rival

She knows, though. I can tell by the almost pleased expression on her face and the way she walks calmly beside me without argument. She knows it’s some drama involving her and hopes it’ll turn out to her advantage.

Damn Fred and his big mouth.

I need her unsettled again, not feeling like she’s got the upper hand. “I have to go to a meeting. I’ll leave you in Gabriel’s capable hands while I’m out.”

I shoot a glance her way as my words hit. She takes a deep breath, and her shoulders relax. Good. She’s on the hook, thinking she’s safe for a while. “The good news, though, is it’s not until tomorrow. We’ve got the rest of the day all to ourselves.”

Her head snaps to face me, and I smile. That’s the look I wanted. I make a show of checking my watch. “Twenty-one hours, in fact. What should I do with all that time?”

We’ve reached the door to my building, and I open it as her face pales. I tighten my grip on the leash in case she bolts, but she’s too smart for that. She stares at the street. A couple of people glance our way, then hurry on. She’s getting no help there, and she knows it.

I’m almost proud of her as she turns away from her escape route, squares her shoulders, and marches through the door.

Fourteen

Ophelia

For one beautiful moment,I thought I was safe. Well, not safe exactly, but back in the invisible protective bubble I’ve lived in my entire life. The untouchable daughter of someone too scary to cross.

I let myself believe that protection had caught up with me here and a new hairdo and ridiculous lips that sting like hell would be the worst I got out of this experience. Better than losing a finger. I might be able to laugh about that sort of thing one day.

But the look on Sebastian’s face as he popped that bubble? It wasn’t funny. We step into the elevator, and it’s a coffin lid closing behind me. My reflection stares back from the mirror, and it’s not me. It can’t be me.

How can a few small changes turn me into a different person? I thought the dark hair would look terrible, but it doesn’t. My skin, even without makeup, has a glow to it. My eyes, framed by the eyelashes, stand out much more than usual. The swollen lips pull my face into a sensual expression, even though it’s the last thing I’m feeling.

It’s not me. I lean closer, staring at my face as the elevator dings.

“You look amazing. Come on now. Plenty of mirrors in my place.”

Of course there are. I can’t stop a hysterical laugh bursting out, the unladylike honk my dad hates so much. Sebastian just smirks, and his gentle hand on my lower back might as well be the jaws of a trap. We have twenty-one hours together, at least. We’re about to be alone. He’s made his intentions perfectly clear.

Sex slave.

Property.

Pet.

Call it what you want. It all leads to the same place.

The apartment door closes behind us, and I study it for the first time. It has a palm pad to open it, just like the entry at the front door. Do all the rooms have built-in security? Is every door we’ve passed a little prison cell?

Sebastian fills a glass of water and hands it to me without a word. I stare at it, then up at him, brows creased.

“It’s called water. You drink it.” he supplies as he fills his own glass and takes a long drink. “I’d offer you juice, but it’d be painful on your lips.”

He’s right. I know the recovery procedures, but why does he? “What do you care?”

He shrugs. “I don’t really. Drink what you like.”

I resist the urge to throw the glass at his head and take a sip. I wince as my lips touch the cool glass, and Sebastian watches with interest. “Are they sore?”

“Yes. You bastard.”

“Women pay thousands for them. It can’t be that bad. You own a clinic, for God’s sake. Don’t be a baby.”

I almost choke on my next mouthful of water. My hand tightens on the glass. I could throw it. He’d probably dodge, but it’d be—

No. I study his face and force my arm to relax. The blown-out pupils and the cruel twist to his lip is a warning siren shrieking into the space between us. He’s goading me, and if I lose my cool, he wins. He wants an excuse—any excuse—to do what he’s clearly dying to do.

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